LOUD, RUDE, GORGEOUS, OFF THE CHARTS, GREAT-BALLS-OF-FIRE-YOUR-MOM-WEARS-ARMY-BOOTS DANG.
I wasn’t completely paying attention to the F-Type during the past year, despite seeing it around in magazines and being vaguely aware Jaguar was coming out with a new exotic that would wash the taste of the X-Type and other dumbed down, boring wastes of metal out of my mouth.
The F-Type showed up two days ago and it was like a cup of orange coffee. It shoved me over, hit me in the belly. Gave me that delicious, lustful feeling I always want as a car nut. You’re turned on. You’re in awe. You want to sleep with it, and in it.
The 8-cylinder engine makes that sweet rumbly sound upon startup and takeoff. You get addicted to it despite knowing it’s going to cost you at the pumps.
And now, a little F-Type story.
I was performing at a venue last night, a sweet little bar with nice folks in and outside. I parked the car a few yards from the door in a gooda spot, and of course people gathered now and again to look at it.
Now you tell me if I was mean, ok?
Young-ish guy outside the bar, in a wheelchair, missing both his legs, metal prosthesis visible. Two sleeves of tats, cig in mouth, kind of a tough guy but not feeling sorry for himself in any way. He was all about the car, he knew about them and about the F-Type. I like talking to car guys, and I stopped and bullshitted with him. He was full of liquor and tobacco and I wasn’t, so there was that little bit of “I’m gonna be patient here, costs me nothing to talk, but there is a little time limit.”
He likes Aston-Martin’s DB9. So do I. Et cetera.
We wrap it up and he says, as I go in, “Hey, drive that thing like you stole it, ok?”
I give him the thumbs-up.
I finish for the evening, emerge from the bar and again he says, “Drive that thing like you stole it.”
“Smoke the tires.”
“Well, I don’t really drive it like that on the street. If I want to go fast or smoke tires, it’s the race track because, you know, you don’t want to put people’s lives in danger, nor do you want a ticket for $100,000 plus your left nut.”
I forget how we got on the subject, but he shared with me that he had lost his legs driving a car 150 miles per hour into a tree. He said this as though that was a reason for me to do the bat-out-of-hell thing.
“Smoke the tires. Drive it like you stole it.”
The world is full of such people whether disabled or not. People who have ears but are deaf. I repeated my “Thanks but I don’t really do that.”
“Patch out!” It’s also easy for people to say that because it’s not their tires they’ll ruin.
“Take care, pal.” I shook his hand.
Got into my car, started it up, it’s loud loud. I could see the looks on his face and the surrounding bar boys.
I put it into first and accelerated to about 3 MPH, driving out of the parking space and onto the street, and away, taking about 5 minutes to do it.
As I drove at lawnmower speeds, the laughter got louder and louder from the mob outside the bar.
I don’t know if the man in the wheelchair laughed, too. I hope he did.
Full review on its way.
Josh Max – Auto Gigolo